


There Is No Emotion

by subtropicalStenella



Category: Star Wars: A New Dawn - John Jackson Miller, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Gen, Poor Life Choices, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13000563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: It's not Darkness, it's just emptiness.





	There Is No Emotion

 “Hey! You there! _Halt!”_

He groans and tips his head back, looking up at the surprisingly clear night sky. There's still some rainbow swirls in his peripherals but most of that's faded by now so the stars just sort of wobble drunkenly, like him, instead of swirling and dancing like they're supposed to.

 

But he halts, freezing hands in the pockets of his coat, at least long enough to say, “Look. Guys. Normally I would be… fuckin’  _ delighted  _ to have y’all join me in this dark, sketchy-ass alleyway, but I am definitely too drunk and probably still too high to give y’all the asskicking you deserve.

“So I'm gonna keep goin’ this way,” he continues, pointing  _ this way, _ and then gestures vaguely  _ not this way _ for, “And y’all can keep going that way and we can all get on with our miserable fuckin lives, okay?”

 

The nose of a DC16 jabs him in the small of the back, so apparently  _ no, not okay.  _ Two Stormies, one on each side.

 

“Threatening a peacekeeper  _ and  _ drunk in public, huh?”

“Sounds like he  _ wants  _ to get arrested.”

“Alright  _ second thing,  _ that's not my fault. Y’wanna take that up with that shitheel cheapskate tailhead bartender down at the Third Eye, because I don't  _ want  _ to be drunk in  _ public,  _ I want to be drunk in  _ there _ . Who the  _ fuck  _ has Last Call an hour before midnight?”

“The kind that closes his bar down at midnight.”

 

He snorts. “Well that's fuckin’ stupid.”

 

“Curfew’s at midnight.”

“And?”

“It's more than an hour after.”

_ “And?” _

“And you're breaking curfew on top of everything else, dumbass.”

He rolls his eyes hard enough that his head goes with it. “Do I  _ look _ like the kinda guy that gives a shit about curfews?” 

“You look like the kinda guy that wants to get arrested.”

“Not especially, no.”

“Now you look like the kinda guy that's resisting arrest.”

“Is that what you want?” he asks, finally turning his head so the Stormie's faceplate isn't lost in a haze of green sparkles. “Would that just make your  _ whole fuckin night?  _ Kick the shit out of some drunk-ass punk kid with a chip on his shoulder about the Empire? Maybe get a promotion out of it if someone important enough believes he might be a Rebel. Oh, or maybe a  _ rogue Jedi,  _ huh? Bet that's worth a bit of brass on your chest.”

“Or you just come quietly,” one offers, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Eh, pass,” he says, and pivots enough to kick that one’s legs out from under him.

 

He's probably lucky the other one just throws an armored elbow at his face instead of shooting him, because he's too drunk or too high or not enough of either to dodge properly.  _ Fuck _ that hurts, and the last remaining sparkles have gone muddy red. 

 

No, no,  _ fuck off, _ get out of his face.

He gets his hand over the Stormie’s visor and shoves him off into the alley wall--too hard,  _ shit _ .

The white helmet cracks like an egg between the duracrete and his hand and Stormie goes down in a heap.  _ Fuck _ .

“What the  _ sh--” _ the other one starts, but shuts up after another good kick, this one right to the face, hard enough his helmet gets knocked off. 

 

Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

 

_... _

 

He shouldn't be standing here in an alley with two unconscious, possibly dead troopers. Didn't take much to break a neck, crush a skull. He learned that when he was… what? Eight? Also learned not to do it unless he was defending himself or others.

Eh. It counts, doesn't it? Getting arrested wouldn't have ended well for anyone. Sure.

 

Even if he can't look at them, because they have Styles' face. Grey's face. Heh. Not Stance, though. Lucky bastard kicked it before it all went to shit. 

 

Besides, he wasn't afraid of them, didn't hate them. That wasn't why he lashed out. It wasn't the  _ Dark Side. _ You had to be capable of feeling anything at all to be able to fear, to hate.

He slumps sideways against the wall, against the--hey, neat, the alusteel fire escape--and ends up laughing bitterly. 

 

_ There is no emotion _

So where's his  _ fucking _ peace?

 

It's at the top of a rickety fire escape, in the bottom of the whiskey bottle he stole out from under the bar. Can't chase the booze with a hard-and-fast hit of his glitter, now, with his nose broke all to hell, but he can lick it off his fingers, watch the stars start dancing again, slower this time. _Peacekeepers_ his ass.

 

Happy fuckin’ Empire Day.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I figure Kanan's about 19 here. Young, dumb and angry. Probably has a lot in common with his future Padawan.


End file.
